Learning Curve

Museum-quality curation takes a wardobe from so-so to superb

What is this?" Nevena Borissova, stylist and retailer extraordinaire, is standing in my living room, dangling something fuzzy and forest green from her finger with the distaste of a woman who has just been handed a used Kleenex.

"Um, a robe?" I answer uncertainly, scanning her face for signs of sarcasm.

"Right. But how do you wear it?"

"With sweats? Hot tea? A remote control. I mean, it's a robe. No one sees it."

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"That's not the point," she says, whipping out a vintage belt with a gold, palmsize butterfly clasp. "Now you have cashmere pajamas, the belt, the cup of tea. Done! Don't you want to relax chicly?"

Had Borissova marched into my kitchen to determine which mug would best complete this little tableau, I would not have been surprised. A leading member of L.A.'s fashion cognoscenti, she lives, eats, and breathes style and—even when very pregnant and straining the seams of her Hervé Léger bandage dress—possesses the tireless drive and tough-love delivery (and gruff Bulgarian-accented syllables) of an Eastern Bloc gymnastics coach.

Borissova is the powerhouse behind Curve, an 11-year-old Hollywood boutique with a fan base that includes Cameron Diaz and Kate Hudson and an equally starry, two-year-old SoHo outpost. Both spots are stocked like hyperstylish closets: a foundation of all-purpose basics, a healthy dose of au moment labels like Jenni Kayne and Isabel Marant, a smattering of vintage, and an artful selection of sculptural pieces by relatively obscure designers such as the Argentinian label Trosman and the Belgian Tim Van Steenburgen. The real genius here—and one that particularly stands out in minimalism-loving New York—is in the mix of European flash meets Left Coast laid-back. Borissova and her band of coolerthan-thou shop assistants aren't just salespeople, they're stylists, on hand to help clients master Curve's opposites-attract school of style: scruffy jeans with mega jewels; T-shirts under curvy Vivienne Westwood jackets (the kind of dressing that looks like it comes easily, but rarely does).

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So what's she doing in my house? My personal style, while not nonexistent, had fallen into a state of arrested development. At 31, I'm too old (and, at a curvy 5'10", too...much) for cutesy and—hopefully—too cool for corporate. My look, if you can call it that, might best be described as "lazy girl interrupted." I hasten to point out that I'm not a total lost cause: I dream of achieving a sort of unfussy, downtown sophistication, some hard-to-name blend of Michelle Williams understatement and post-haircut Gwyneth sleekness. And somewhere in my closet—under the easy A-lines that seemed somehow sophistiqué two years ago; the cardies that read more old-lady than intellectual—the building blocks of this look already exist. (After all, I've pulled it off once or twice.) But dressing that way every day would require the kind of seismic shift I'm far too lackadaisical to undertake alone.

Borissova's reality-TV-style home invasions, in which she plunders closets and upends drawers to trim a wardrobe's fat, then fills in the gaps with pieces that bring it all together—a process that's part spring cleaning, part spiritual cleanse—sounded like just the kick in the pants (so to speak) I needed. "We all get into ruts," Borissova says. "You need someone who can dress you a few times to give you a new perspective. You need an expert in your closet." Amen.

Whether she's in her boutique or in my Lower East Side microcloset, Borissova follows Retail 101: always merchandise. "Your closet should be a jewel," she says. "When you open it, it should make you happy." Yes, that means evicting your mismatched drycleaner hangers (she's a bit Mommy Dearest on this point), but it also means making your closet look as "harmonious" as a rack in a boutique. There is no lack of space in Borissova's L.A. closet, but she still keeps a separate rolling rack for her current rotation: a minimum of 10 head-to-toe looks that integrate pieces from her existing wardrobe and key seasonal newbies, and are utterly complete, down to lingerie, bags,and jewelry.

Inviting a woman you just met—one who calls 'em as she sees 'em—to edit your sample sale bin finds, overworn, sooty sandals, and cold-and-flu-season robes is invasive. One's closet, literally and metaphorically, is a hiding place. Examining its contents in the presence of a third party illuminates innermost thoughts about body image and identity, not to mention one's secret, semipsychotic shopping habits. (In my case, that masochistic rite unleashes anxieties about whatever it is I don't have—the right budget, the right body, you name it—which is why my consumption is limited to last-minute Barneys binges and dismal sale rack scrounges, and also why it's no wonder my wardrobe is not the well-oiled machine it apparently should be.) Borissova knows that what she's actually rooting around in is people's psyches—infinitely messier than the worst hoarder's den—which is probably why she skips the preliminaries and handholding. If the process were more considered, she'd need a therapist's license.

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As it is, she deals in humorously fashion police-y sound bites. For example: "Everybody has too much. If you can't even see what you have, it's useless." In other words, I lack balance. I have 20-odd nearly identical little black dresses (one purchased none too cheaply a week earlier) and enough sweaters to swaddle a Siberian ski team. Absent, however, are the season's clunky, bold shoes and jewelry that Borissova says will glamify my new bohemia.

She's not snobbish: Chloé trousers and a Sonya Rykiel top sail onto the near toppling "no" pile; a tweed bolero from H&M (its $39.99 tag still intact) lands on another stack destined for the tailor, where the fitting fee will doubtless cost more than the jacket itself. Also in this load: a raft of skirts Borissova deems "Big Love length—too dowdy!"

"Shorten it, cut it, dye it," she commands pragmatically. "When the color seems dated, throw it in the machine with some dye and make it black or navy."

Only when my closet reaches total decimation does she seem satisfied. "What's left you could wear for the next five years and be fine," she says. "You could buy five things a season; that's it." As she leaves, I dig out the flu robe—sans butterfly belt, thankyouverymuch—grab the remote, and collapse.

Luckily, restocking is a lot more fun. The next day I arrive at Curve with a handful of my own favorites, which Borissova proceeds to restyle completely. She revives a lipstick purple, high-neck '80s dress with piles of bangles, and revamps my black, bubble-hem pencil skirt with studded Burberry platforms. As for new additions, she suggests black jeans by Genetic Denim, which are as velvety soft and stretchy as leggings; a cozy turquoise and black Missoni sweatercoat; a graphic black and white cape by Anne Valérie Hash; and a huge purple flocked feather scarf by Leigh & Luca. To lengthen my silhouette, she pulls out hiplength silk charmeuse tanks in gray, navy, and black, plus a heavenly draped cashmere cardigan by Inhabit. This produces lean, polished layers—Gwyneth en route to meet Madge for macrobiotic lattes.

But just as I'm ready to declare our mission accomplished, Borissova kicks into high gear, roping me with a mammoth Erickson Beamon stone and crystal necklace and matching three-inch-long earrings. And a knuckle duster of a ring. And a big, shiny patent Valentino bag. I would have settled for any one of these; more, more, and more of them seems to push the boundaries of good taste. But Borissova insists this is where I've been going wrong all along. My treasured, tiny charms and antique lockets? "Too delicate for your frame," she says. "You're not making a statement. You need more!" Could this aggressively stylish apparition—her boho-glam-glitz fairly shouting, "Behold, a Fashion Person!!"—be the new me?

Well, no. But perhaps that's as much the point as any of it: Here is the promised change of perspective. And though it didn't become clear to me until days later, when I saw the photos that are now on this page, way more than I'm used to may be just enough. At least until it's time to curl up with the remote.